I am Stretched on Your Grave
by aRedBaroness
Summary: Janto. Jack visits Ianto's grave when he's on Earth. Post COE, not Miracle Day compliant. Canon character death. No fix its. Inspired by the Abney Park song "I am Stretched on Your Grave."


I am Stretched on Your Grave

All told, Captain Jack Harkness couldn't stay away from Earth that long. He had taken advantage of that youth with the big ears, Alonso, that the Doctor had recommended, but in the end it had hurt too much. He wasn't ready to be with another man yet, not after Ianto had only been cold in the ground a few months.

Jack had defied protocol, he allowed Rhiannon to bury Ianto, because Ianto deserved better than an icy forgotten drawer in the Torchwood archives. It wasn't because Jack wasn't sure he'd be able to resist the temptation to open the drawer every now and then and gaze on the cold perfectly preserved remains of his lover, sleeping like a fairy tale princess, never to wake no matter how many kisses were lovingly bestowed.

In the end burial had been the better option, it gave Jack somewhere to go, somewhere to mourn. More nights than not Jack ended up stretched on Ianto's grave. He would look at the stars and remember those blue eyes and the way his pink lips looked curved into an adorable smirk. He would remember what Ianto looked like flushed, sweating and trembling beneath him. He would remember tying Ianto's tie in the mornings and how it always made him want to drag Ianto right back into the tiny bed in his bunker.

It seemed to Jack that if he fell asleep on Ianto's grave, he could imagine his young lover stretched out beside him, wrapping Jack in safety, love and warmth. It soothed him. When Jack stayed in his bunker sleep never came so easily, the bed felt empty and lacking. The only way to achieve sleep in that situation was at the bottom of a bottle. To the casual observer sleeping on his dead lover's grave would not seem the healthier option, but it undoubtedly was. If it weren't for his graveside naps, he'd be in AA.

On clear nights like these, stretched out with his head pillowed on Ianto's flat headstone, Jack liked to sing an old ballad. He'd long since forgotten where he learned it, but he found it comforting nonetheless.

"I am stretched on your grave  
And I'll lie there forever  
If your hands were in mine  
I'd be sure they could not sever  
My apple tree, my brightness  
It's time we were together  
For I smell of the earth  
And am worn by the weather

The priests and the friars  
They approach me in dread  
Because I still love you  
My love and you're dead  
I still would be your shelter  
Through rain and through storm  
And with you in your cold grave  
I cannot sleep warm."

Before Ianto, he hadn't let anyone get that close, close enough for the "l word" to become a factor in a good long while. He'd learned his lesson, that it was too painful to let someone in and it was special kind of hell to watched your loved ones grow old and wither and die right before your eyes. Jack had sworn to be on his guard and not to let that happen again, but Ianto had wormed his sharp dressed ass right in there, and there was nothing Jack could do. In the end he hadn't even let Ianto die knowing the truth of it, that Jack did love him. Jack would always regret that. He should have told him. He owed it to Ianto.

More often than not, after singing Jack found himself apologizing again and again for that transgression. He knew that there was a dark all encompassing nothingness, awaiting you after death, but he couldn't help but fervently hope that Ianto was watching him, looking down on him from on high, immaculately dressed in Jack's favorite suit, the one with red shirt perched on a cloud with glorious bright white wings and a jaunty halo, slightly askew.

Contemplating any alternative, where Ianto was alone in the dark with the beast was not possible. Ianto deserved so much better. In the end, he would have deserved better than Jack. Some other strong, suave man, who was not a compulsive flirt making moon eyes at his married female employee. Someone who could give Ianto the undivided attention he so richly deserved. Someone who could give Ianto the security he desperately craved. Someone who had the courage to shower him with sweet nothings and would greet him every morning with an "I love you," and a kiss.

It hurt Jack to think of Ianto with anyone else, but he couldn't deny that he'd hoped that Ianto would find someone more worthy, who could give him happiness and devotion. That the bright young Welshman would not be wasted on an emotionally constipated slutty immortal. It was all too late for that now.

The dew on the grass had soaked into Jack's trousers and he shivered a little, wishing once again for Ianto's phantom presence to warm him and kiss away the pain. He walked through the world now as if he had a huge weight about his shoulders, he was so tired. How much longer would Jack have to endure this lifetime alone. Surely he had at least another thousand years ahead of him, perhaps as long as time itself.

Would Jack even remember Ianto in a thousand year's time? One night when he'd been drunk out of skull, Jack had vowed to make a permanent reminder of Ianto. He'd woken with a searing pain in his chest and when he'd removed the gauze over his heart, he was hardly surprised to see Ianto's name etched there in a graceful, masculine script with his date of birth and death. Underneath the text was Ianto's smiling face, he looked as if he'd just finished laughing, the tattoo artist had even captured the light and happiness in his eyes.

Sometimes Jack regretted that tattoo. The morning after he slept with Alonso for instance, Jack had been loathe to look that tattoo of Ianto in the eyes. It felt like a betrayal, with Ianto's corpse barely cool in the earth. He'd vowed not to go back to men for a while.

It wasn't like sex with Ianto had been perfect or so unforgettable. Sex was sex. It was the feelings that had been different, that had made all the difference. That was the part that was irreplaceable, the feeling of love that surged in his chest as he held Ianto through the aftershocks of his release. It was pure and searing hot, it choked him and stole the words of love even as they formed on his lips in that moment, when the earth was still spinning to fast and his legs were weak as jelly.

In the mornings after spending the night graveside, when Jack woke he could swear he could smell Ianto, a unique blend of that expensive mint shampoo he favored and his sickly sweet musk. Jack had never been with anyone before that smelled that sugary. Ianto always smelled like thick brown sugar boiling on a hot stove. It had been months after Ianto's death, before Jack could bring himself to enter a bakery and it still made him feel like bursting into tears. The smell of sugar filled him rushes of want, arousal and love burning beneath his ribs. Sometimes when he jerked off, Jack would do it with a mouthful of sugar and he would come harder than ever. He wanted nothing more than to be able to bury his face in the nape of Ianto's neck, nuzzle the short hairs there and smell that sugary, minty piece of heaven. He'd trade anything to be able to do that again.

Jack closed his eyes. He was imagining a sarcastic Welshman curled up next to him, stroking his chest and running large gentle hands through the scruff of his hair. He imagined Ianto relaxing and laying his head on Jack's chest. Jack would place a soft kiss on Ianto's head and wrap his arms around him and never let him go.


End file.
